On Monday November 16, 1942 a German military delegation came to our town to give our Mayor Jean Hugon a 24 hours ultimatum to surrender the town. As a reaction to the ultimatum the latter informed our civil governor Mr. Clement who in turn sent the message to Algiers. The next day, November 17, the first parachuted British battalion landed on the hills north of the town. Thursday November 19 German planes bombed our town for the first time, as a warning. This broke the long period of peace Beja had known for many centuries. The next day, Friday November 20, Beja was furiously bombed by German airplanes for many hours, because of its key position leading to the roads of Tabarka, Mateur, Bizerte and Algeria.

 

 

On Tuesday November 17, early in the morning, little men holding on to colorful balloons came down from the sky. The sky had become clouded with them. They were British parachutists.

“Brand new men from God, sent by our prophet,” said Ali.

“No”, answered Nicholas, “they are angels.” Both were wrong. They were neither angels nor messengers of God.

“They are the vanguard of the Allies; better to see the British than the Germans,” said our elders. We, the little ones, did not have any opinion. All of this was disturbing to us. We did not have the least desire to welcome anyone, and even less soldiers. The sky was downcast and menacing; the air was losing its purity. As if out of our books, a warlike spirit deriving from the earlier times of the Carthaginians, the Numidians and the Romans pervaded the atmosphere with a repulsive smell which stifled the velvety perfume of lilacs and jasmine.

This feeling was suddenly interrupted by the news so feared by our grown-ups: the Germans had just reached Tunis; they were already holding all the cities along the coast. The grown- ups were sad and so was I. My vacations seemed to be in jeopardy. I was musing, remembering the beautiful summer days, the games on the warm sand, the waves stroking the young Arab, Italian, Jewish, French, and Maltese girls lying by the sea, some covered up, some in their bathing suits, the evenings on the beaches washed by the cool breezes of the Mediterranean soothing our sun burnt bodies. I was recalling the merchants of bonbolonis (doughnuts) coming out of nowhere at the time of day when the brightness of the sun diminishes as it sinks below the horizon. The ruins of Carthage would appear in the background and that was the sign for the ending of the day.

On Thursday November 19th, I went to the train station. I saw that British soldiers had occupied the engine shed which was empty at that time and were cleaning and maintaining their weapons and their belongings. In the afternoon, I was going home, when suddenly I heard a terrible noise. Planes were flying over the town; I counted seventeen; we had never seen so many at once. One of them, headed for the town, dropped a black object and flew up again. A terrifying sound burst out. When I arrived at home my father, who was alarmed, explained to us what we had to do in the event that the planes would come back the next day.

The next morning I went to see the British soldiers again. They were kind and they gave me candy. Suddenly more planes than the day before were in the sky. This time the noise was stronger than last time. For sure, this time they were to bomb our town and to kill and to destroy as much as they could.

 

Suddenly another explosion. I fainted. Mrs. Nino the Maltese brought me back to life by splashing a glass of water over my face. Waking up suddenly and seeing her next to me reminded me of an episode of Mr. and Mrs. Nino’s life.

Josephine Nino was a simple and extremely kind person. She had practically never left the threshold of her home. Since she limped, she would spend most of her time seated on her wooden chair, by the window, watching the passers-by. We, as children, became fond of her and she knew us all well. She had a fat and tall husband who was the horse-carriage driver of the town. On the day of my communion, he drove us to the river in his carriage as was the custom.

He had two carriages: one for weddings and the other for funerals. On those occasions he adorned his horses either with white or black ribbons. The horses were beautifully trained so that

they could, according to the need of the occasion, assume a different pace, either proudly hold their heads high, with a joyful look or adopt a very slow and ponderous gait with their heads down. Mr. Nino loved those two horses since they were his source of income; he spent his days washing them, brushing them so that they were always ready to respond to any call.

For a whole winter, there was no wedding, no burial, which meant no income for Mr. Nino, who had to use his savings in order to live and to feed his horses. One day, Mr. Fratello, one of his friends, asked him to rent his horses to work in the fields. At first, he felt insulted and answered, “Are you serious? My horses? They are trained like my children! Are you out of your mind?” Nino was adamantlyopposed to the idea, but eventually, after much thought, he grudgingly accepted the suggestion since, being out of work, he was exhausting his savings. He accepted under two conditions: to bring back his horses as soon as he would be called for a wedding or a funeral, and, not to overwork them.

Mr. Nino was sad at the thought of giving them up. After all, they were his best friends. He felt he was a coward and he was unable to face them.

On the first day, he walked them to their new job, in the same manner as one takes kids to school. He felt sad to see them off to work and from time to time he would interfere in their work so that they could rest. But this situation could not last much longer; Nino felt that his daily interventions could undermine his relationship with Mr. Fratello. Therefore he decided not to visit them anymore.

A few days later, one of the horses suddenly died. Mr. Fratello was devastated. How was he to break the sad news to Nino?

Mr. Manjoul was considered a wise man among the old Arabs in the city; he was respected, listened to and had the trust of the entire community. He never missed an opportunity to help others. Mr. Fratello went to consult with him.

“What you are telling me here, Mr. Fratello,” said Mr. Manjoul, “is very serious. I wonder whether Nino will be able to stand the shock. But don't consider offering him money, which he might resent even more. Let me have some time to think over this problem.”

The following day, Mr. Manjoul asked the police-court magistrate to pay him a visit in order to inform him, and he asked him for a solution to this awful story. The magistrate was not comfortable in dealing with this situation and thought it might have been a practical joke. Mr. Manjoul convinced him to the contrary and told him, “What you will have to do is very simple. Early tomorrow morning you will wake up Nino and you will ask him to come and see you at 8 a.m. When he arrives, you will tell him very tactfully that you dreamed that his eldest son, Antoine, was dead.”

“And then?” asked the magistrate.

“The rest will be my responsibility” answered Mr. Manjoul.

The following day, they did as it was said. To Mr. Nino's great astonishment, he received a very early call from the magistrate. For sure an important man must have died and the magistrate wanted to talk to him about the details of the funeral. The horses were not there but, never mind, he would deal with that later in the morning. At that moment he was visualizing the procession going through the town with himself perched on his carriage, impeccably dressed in his top hat to the admiration of passers-by. As she had been forewarned, Mrs. Nino got up and started cleaning and pressing her husband's beautiful black uniform which was hanging in the closet for such an opportunity.

Nino arrived at eight o'clock sharp and was greeted by the magistrate with a serious expression on his face. Nino, assuming the cause of his seriousness, said, “Don't worry; I am always ready at any time to fulfill my duties.”

“That's beside the point, my dear Nino. I am overwhelmed and deeply distressed; I don't quite know how to tell it to you but I had a terrible nightmare, I dreamed of Antoine's death.”

“Who? Antoine, my son?”

“Yes, my dear Nino, your son.”

Overwhelmed and half crazed, Nino collapsed in an armchair. At that moment, someone knocked on the door. Mr. Manjoul, out of breath, appeared and said,

“Well, Nino, you are here, I've been looking for you everywhere.” What on earth did Manjoul want? Probably to confirm Antoine's death.

“My poor Nino, I have bad news for you,” Manjoul added.

“Oh, my God! Don't tell me about Antoine my son.”

“But who's talking about him. It's about one of your horses which has just died.” As if ejected from the armchair, Nino jumped up with joy.

“One of my horses? What do I care! Thank God it's not my son.” The magistrate, still playing his role, added, “Well! There’s still some truth to my dream, it was about your horse and not Antoine.”

But Nino was already outside, on his way home singing and dancing. He had never been so happy in his whole life. Once more, Mr. Manjoul had succeeded in finding a happy solution to a serious problem.

 

 

Mrs. Nino, who had taken me on her knee, patted me, put me on the ground and said, “Run back home, my son, it's wartime.” I did not understand the full meaning of her words. I had never seen a war before. Everybody was running away like sheep attacked by a wolf. Planes were flying low almost grazing the rooftops. There were explosions everywhere with terrifying noises mingled with screams and shrieks from injured people. I was afraid of being crushed by the panic stricken crowd. Women and children were running in all directions. No longer did I know where I was. I was swept away in this human maelstrom and lost in eddies created by the kashabeeas and melhafas (very wide garments) of the Arabs. I was not sure in which direction to go. Then suddenly in this deafening uproar, there was total silence and I felt abandoned and alone. I saw myself like in a well, and felt detached from this frantic human mass, from the streets and houses and from the church which I could no longer see. I sensed danger and became afraid. But the more fearful I became, the stronger I grew. I became a stranger to my body which had been caught up in the general panic.

Without realizing how far I had strayed, I found myself in front of our own house. I quickly went up the stairs; the door to our apartment was wide open. Not a soul was there, dishes were left on the table which in turn was covered with a wax cloth. A pot was on the charcoal fire, still burning strongly. My sister's slippers littered the hallway.

A melancholic air suffused everything and I was overcome by gloom. I already saw myself as an orphan abandoned to a sad fate. Instinctively, I knocked on my neighbor's door which stood ajar. Only the cat was left and his expression showed abandonment. I returned to the empty street where I met only silence. I felt like crying and screaming, but to what purpose? I didn't know what to do, return home or go to school or to the synagogue, or to the church? I was at a loss. I knew I had to do something but I did not know exactly what. In this devastated town, I decided to go to my second home, the school. On my way over there, suddenly the environment had a very different quality: it was pleasant, scented, human. Someone was following me. I turned around and immediately became very happy. My friend Fatma stood there smiling graciously. I jumped into her arms like a dog, seeing its master again, hugging her and not wanting to let go. She allowed me to do it; then after a while the sincere and noble look in her eyes seemed to indicate that she was bringing life back to me, that she was holding the most precious secret in the universe. Fatma knew where my mother was.

“Go to your mother,” she said in a soothing voice, “she is at your aunt's.”

 

The vivid memory of this moment brings back to my mind recollections of Fatma's wedding. This followed the traditional form so different from today when the rites have undergone such drastic changes. The engagement was concluded by the parents and the couple to be did not know each other until the wedding night. Age differences were frequent but parents were not concerned by this, only financial interest prevailed.

A few months before the war, Fatma and I were playing in the courtyard. She was wearing a green leaf printed dress which added something to her lovely figure. Her face was as round as a rosebud ready to burst open, her arms were plump, her braided long hair as black as a winter night. She exuded good health. She was carefree. While we were playing, her mother called to tell her that her engagement had just been concluded by her father and her father-in-law to be. She came back very upset, on the verge of tears which clouded her beautiful eyes. However, she kept her composure to tell me that we had to stop playing. She had to give up childhood games and schooling and her life would change completely. She left me brusquely and ran to her room. I followed her. She was already crying. I tried to comfort her without knowing why I was doing it.

“It's over between us; we won't be able to play anymore. I have to become a woman and later on a mother.” I did not understand why her marriage had to put an end to our relationship and to our games. And on top of that it was hard for me to see her as a mother. She was stroking her doll as if to say goodbye. Tomorrow it would be her husband she would have to stroke submissively. How could she oppose her father's decision? She had to obey him. She could not even give her opinion; everything was concluded between the two men, it was final and permanent. She had to love her husband unconditionally despite her youth and her need for tender care, now she would have to give it out in turn. She was brutally torn from her childhood without any intermediary stage. I shared her anguish, but I could not do anything to help or to defend her. Was it possible not to see Fatma again, Fatma, my playmate and my friend. Once married, she would lead a secluded life, isolated from everyone except much older women with whom she could not have anything in common.

“You,” she said, “you are lucky, you are a boy, and then you are not a Moslem. You will be able to see, talk and go out with the woman who will become your wife.” People envied her but she was ready, if the opportunity arose, to give up that fiancé she had never seen or known. I heard the grown-ups say, “She will learn to love her husband”, as if it could not be otherwise, as if love was to be learned, as if love and feelings were two different things.

 

Our street had been filled with joy and happiness during the seven days prior to her wedding. Carriages drawn by horses brought Fatma's trousseau ordered by her father. The social level of the bride in those days was evaluated according to the number of horses. Huge couscous dishes and whole sheep were brought in order to feed family members who had come from afar for the wedding. All the dressmakers in town had been hired and had been working for months on the dresses for the bride and those for the guests. Weddings gave a rare opportunity to the young ladies to parade in their long beautiful gowns decorated with embroidery. Women had their faces and legs waxed to remove hair with a mixture of warm water, sugar and lemon, the best cosmetic product known and used among Arab families. Women colored their hair with henna; they manicured their hands and feet. Young girls took advantage of the situation to have their ears pierced.

Before the wedding, there was the day of the Turkish bath. The morning was reserved for men and the afternoon for women. All the guests accompanied the new couple to this cleaning ceremony.

Children below the age of ten (and I was one of them) were accepted at the women’s session. It was there that one whispered for the first time in the ears of the bride the practice of lovemaking. Experienced women quarreled over the honor of giving the best advice to Fatma who was red with shame. She was naked as everyone else; her body was plump, her skin as soft as a baby's. Women did not pay much attention to the young boys while we listened to what was said with an innocent attitude and did not miss an occasional glance at all those naked bodies. We thus became spies for men who did not miss an opportunity to question us on what we had seen or heard.

 At the age of ten, we lost the privileges that the women had granted us. Then, we had to go to the men's baths where men covered their bodies with huge towels called “Fouta". There the atmosphere was more serious, more austere at least for us. When men would tell stories, they made sure of sending us away. They thought that only they were privy to life's secrets but of course we already knew them thanks to the women. Naturally we pretended not to understand anything, but we knew more than the men could suspect. They did not know for sure whether we were informed, in any case they preferred not to find out the truth about us. By sending us away the men were misjudging us, but also misleading us. And thus lying became a part of our life from puberty. We also had our own secrets learned at home, from neighbors, or elsewhere which we exchanged. We were unseen witnesses and therefore we knew everything which happened everywhere. We were similar to old trees which have stood witness to so many generations. If they could speak, they would teach us so many things concerning our ancestors. Like them, we remained silent, disclosing nothing to avoid creating tragic situations within families.

 

Various customs preceded the religious ceremony, including that of a gold coin dipped in henna and put in the bride's left hand. These customs were omens for happiness in marriage. Everyone, close and distant friends of the two families, hoped to be invited to the final reception. For Fatma's wedding we were invited as well as all the neighbors. The reception took place at the bridegroom's parents’ home. They owned a sumptuous villa. According to custom, men were in one room and women in another. My tender age allowed me to go everywhere. My mother took me with her to the room of the women, the walls of which were decorated with flowers and embroidered tapestries. The guests were seated on beautiful rugs which covered the whole floor; they leaned on silk or velvet cushions and talked. Mint tea

 

 

was served in glasses from trays resting on top of low tables, together with cakes dipped in honey, and all kinds of non alcoholic drinks and delicacies. Richly dressed in silk and tulle, Fatma moved from one group to the other, as a hostess, to the accompaniment of compliments and youyou sounds. She was very pretty with her big black eyes expressing joy and sadness at the same time. What was she to become? What would be her destiny? Would she be happy? She was hardly fifteen, still a child and her husband was over fifty. Using my privilege I went to the room reserved for men: they talked with each other, some standing, others sitting; they all had tea in their hands and nibbled on cookies or other pastries. As he saw me, the bridegroom, who did not know his wife to be yet, urged me to describe her. “Is she pretty, tall, small, blond or dark haired?” These questions bothered me but the truth could disappoint him, so I answered, “She is very beautiful, noble, and as white as milk.”

Later on entertainment took place in the big illuminated garden where only men and older women were admitted. Young women and young girls watched the scene from a distance through the lattice windows of the villa. An orchestra played loudly accompanying the sensuous voices of the Oriental women singers. But the belly dancers were the focus of attention, wearing little and virtually naked, they wriggled their bodies to charm the audience. Men's eyes were dazzled and overwhelmed by this abundance of female flesh.

This was the Fatma whom I had hugged on the day of the bombing. Her body had changed but her look had remained the same, sensitive and profound. However it expressed resignation. The beginning of the war had not succeeded in changing her and she had become wiser and fulfilled her role as an Arab woman. She was faithful to her husband and their customs. She had kept the same smile I had known then. Her eyes had the placidity of well water. Her life progressed as if nothing of importance had happened. She had found peace and serenity in her isolation as an Arab wife. Her behavior had inspired me with security and confidence. Since that time I have not seen her, or the other Arab girls I had met during my childhood.

Fortunately today traditions have changed. Young girls may discard the veil. They are the beneficiaries of an evolution Fatma would have appreciated in her own time.

 

My mother's innocence was such that it almost equaled naivety; she was fearful and my father on the opposite was very brave. As he had foreseen continuous bombings, he had forbidden my mother from leaving the house.

“Our building is strongly built”, he said, “we are well protected, since it is made of stones and steel beams and cannot be easily destroyed.” But this affirmation was not enough to reassure her. We lived on the second floor and she was frightened at the thought of being buried under the house.

As a result she chose to seek refuge at my aunt's who did not live far from us, in an `Oukala'. It was a house in the Arab style, built around a central courtyard. It had a large gate and individual rooms and was owned by my father’s uncle. My aunt occupied one of them. We had spent beautiful days there with family or with my cousins. In my disturbed emotional condition, many memories came to me incoherently.

I ran to my aunt's. I knocked loudly on the door. The old owner of the house opened it and greeted me with, “Well, here you are; your mother is in the room over there with all the cowards. They are afraid of dying, but not I.” The room was crowded. The children were weeping; women did not stop invoking all the prophets and the saints. The only man who was there was my uncle. He was also panic stricken. He kept repeating, “My God! I don't want to die this way,” which brought to my mind the following question, “Is there another way in which he would like to die?”

My father came home very late that day; it was his habit to go shopping for the Sabbath. As soon as he had finished, he was paralyzed with fear from the gunfire of the planes flying low overhead and shooting pitilessly at everyone on the streets. He took shelter in the store of a building which seemed strong. When calm returned, he went home. There he found no one despite the instructions given to my mother. Guessing where we all were he went to my aunt's with his big shopping basket full of provisions: meat, tripe, fruits, vegetables, cakes dipped in honey, almonds, pistachios, etc. Unfortunately it was already night and as we had entered the Sabbath the women were not allowed to cook. Instead of dinner, we had to nibble on anything not requiring preparation after having said the usual Friday prayer. In these circumstances this was somewhat skipped through and lacked the solemnity that our elders would have endowed it with.

On the following day about 9 o'clock, a new wave of German planes skimmed over the houses while mercilessly bombing and raking the streets with machine gunfire. The dead and wounded lay on all sides. Our anti aircraft defense was not responding. But did it actually exist? As soon as we heard the roaring of the planes above our heads, we were filled with fear.